The Dull Pulse of the City
I woke before dawn, my bones heavy with indifference, as shrill danfo horns stirred the silent air. In one corner of my apartment, the waning moon slivered across peeling paint, a tiny silver grin mocking my hollow chest. I pressed a hand to my heart - no spark, only an echo of fatigue.
Outside, the Lagos lagoon lay dark as ink, broken only by the distant glow of streetlamps lining the Third Mainland Bridge. I watched fishermen untangle their nets with mechanical almost automated gestures, a daily ritual devoid of promise. Even the hum of generators felt like a dirge…
My apartment, once a sanctuary layered with memories, now felt foreign. The couch sagged under the weight of abandoned manuscripts. Half-finished canvases leaned against the wall like silent judges. I ran my fingers over a dried ink stain on my desk, a stubborn blot I could no longer summon the words to explain.
Three weeks earlier, I’d resigned from the advertising agency that had defined me. The boss had patted my back, his words perfunctory: “Time for new adventures.” I’d smiled, but inside, I felt the room underneath me collapse. Without deadlines or campaigns, I had no reason to wake up, no thread to guide me through Lagos’s chaotic tapestry.
A single postcard lay atop the unopened mail: my sister, Iyabo’s handwriting curling across the back in teal ink. “When do we see you again?” it asked. The skyline on the front glowed apricot, a vista I could almost believe in. I slid the card into my satchel, promising myself I’d answer by reclaiming what felt lost.
I stood and switched off the rickety fan. The blades stuttered to a halt, leaving the air still and sticky. Each breath tasted of solitude. But dawn would come, as it always did, and I resolved that today I would step beyond the threshold of this stifling quiet. Even if the spark had nearly died, I would search every alley and market stall in Lagos to find its faintest ember.
Echoes of a Lost Dream
Late morning heat pressed against my skin as I navigated Broad Street’s cacophony of vendors hawking tomatoes, motorbikes weaving through clogged traffic, the scent of grilled plantain wafting from roadside stalls. I clutched my notebook like a lifeline, but its pages remained stubbornly blank.
A sudden burst of children’s laughter drew me to the pavement, where boys played football under a flickering streetlight. Their joy felt alien, distant, a mirror reflecting a happiness I remembered but couldn’t touch. I knelt to watch them. Their pounding feet on the concrete resonating like a hopeful heartbeat.
On impulse, I ducked into the Writers’ Lounge, a dusty two-room sanctuary hidden behind a tailor’s storefront. Musty volumes lined crooked shelves, and shafts of sunlight sliced through half-closed shutters. In the corner, an elderly man with thick-rimmed glasses sipped tea as if it were rare ambrosia.
“Looking for lost words?” he asked when he noticed me. His voice was calm, measured, an anchor in the whirlwind outside.
I nodded, words stuck in my throat. He slid a sturdy chair toward me. “Words live in the places you’ve dared to feel. Open those doors, and they’ll come.”
Doubt gnawed at me, but I stayed until the man announced the evening’s open-mic readings. As I stepped back into the sunlit street, his words lingered, a tentative invitation.
I caught a danfo to Yaba, the city unfolding in patchwork: music blaring from vinyl shops, kaleidoscopic fabric stalls draped in Ankara prints, students rushing past hawkers selling akara. My chest tightened—no inspiration yet, but the world pulsed with possibility.
I scribbled: Lagos is a restless beast, alive in every roar of engine, every whispered prayer at dusk. But the page spat out only fragments. Unsettled, I watched the fishermen fold their nets into the lagoon at sunset. For a moment, I remembered writing my first story under my grandmother’s mango tree—a tale spun from whispered secrets. That memory flickered like a dying candle, daring me to breathe life into its flame.
Hmmm🥺